2000
by Siratrem
Summary: Harry Potter left Hogwarts in 1998. His children don't start for another decade. A muggle-born girl gets her letter in the year 2000. She's adjusting to her new life while still holding onto her heritage, in a world she's only starting to understand.
1. A Special Messenger

1\. A Special Messenger

'It's still pretty cold, huh?' Jules grumbled, pressing his lips to his hands. They were turning mottled red. 'It's March already.'

Meg looked up at him to reply, then paused.

There was a man walking down to road towards them.

She wasn't sure why this man distracted her. Maybe it was just an unfamiliar face in the small, insular village. Maybe it was the fact he was tall, nice-looking, with a cascade of pillar-shaped earrings dripping from his left earlobe. Maybe it was because he met her eyes as he approached and gave her a small, conspiratorial smile.

She kept her eyes on him as he passed her. His head turned towards her and, just as he was going to get past her, he winked. Then he turned and kept walking like nothing had happened.

She stopped walking.

'Meg?' Jules stopped dead, looking back at her over his shoulder with a frown. 'Something wrong?'

She didn't answer. She watched the stranger swagger down her road, in the direction of her house. For some reason, she just couldn't look away. She had this strange...feeling.

That was the most likely reason why she wasn't surprised when she saw him head into their driveway, feet crunching on the gravel. Why she wasn't surprised when she heard him knock on the door, hidden behind the green privet hedges around their land.

She turned back to her big brother. He was frowning at the house now. 'Must be going to see Mum and Dad.'

'Must be,' Meg echoed.

Jules frowned for a second longer, then seemed to shake it off. 'Oh well. Come on. Grandma said she was cooking for us.'

He started walking again, shoving his hands in his pockets. Meg took one last look at their house, then hurried after him.

After an hour or so of being fussed over by their grandmother, their father came to her door. Grandma tried to usher him in for leftovers, but he declined.

At that, Jules frowned at him. 'You're going to make us leave, aren't you?'

Meg had no idea what was wrong with her father. Usually a man of keen mind and steely focus, he seemed tired and clumsy-mouthed as he brushed his hand through his hair repeatedly in agitation and sighed at the ground.

'Come in, Silas – Nell and Seb have roped me into making cookies,' Grandma tried, only for Meg's father to raise a polite hand.

'Sorry, Millie,' he said through another sigh. 'I should really be getting back.'

'Aww,' Jules erupted, echoed by his younger siblings, but their father shook his head at them.

'No, it might be best if you lot stay here after all,' he said. He turned his eyes onto Meg.

Somehow, Meg just knew this was something to do with the stranger who had passed her on the street earlier.

Her father held out a hand to his oldest daughter. 'Come on, my dear. We have a visitor. He wants to talk to you...about school.'

'School?' Meg repeated, narrowing her eyes at him. Like that would see through the things he'd left untold. _'My_ school?'

'Just come. It's best if he explains it himself.'

Meg glanced at her grandmother, standing in the kitchen doorway with the twins either side of her, clinging to her apron. Seb, noting the long silence, took the opportunity to reclaim her attention. 'Nana, the cookies!'

Grandma sighed. 'Alright then. Will you be coming over after? I can make something delicious—'

'We'll let you know,' Meg's father replied with a forced smile. Meg took his reaching hand and let him pull her towards the door. 'Say goodbye to the others, Meg. We'll see you later, okay?'

Grandma didn't try to pull him into the web a third time. She turned back to the kitchen. Jules frowned at his sister as their father led her out of the door.

She could hear his complaining already. _Why does the visitor want to talk only to her?_

The air was still crisp and cold outside. Meg hurried to keep step with her father's longer strides. 'Who's the visitor?'

He sighed. 'A teacher at a very exclusive school. He's come to talk to you about starting there next year.'

A frown crossed Meg's face. 'But...I thought I was going to stay at my school?' _With Jules and all our friends._ She tried to picture going to some new school, and her heart started fluttering. How was she going to make friends without Jules there?

'It's not a sure thing. He just wants to talk to you.'

Meg fell into silence, thinking that over. She'd just have to politely decline, then. Clearly, that was her only option.

It was a short walk back to their house. Meg's mother stood waiting for them in the hall, looking flustered and slightly pink in the face. 'There you are!'

She came up and took Meg's arms in her hands, bending down to her level. 'Listen, sweetheart – there's a gentleman here to see you. He's going to talk to you, and that's fine, but don't start worrying, okay? You're not being forced into anything. I promise.'

'Beth, please,' Meg's father muttered, grasping his wife by the arm and pulling her away. 'You'll freak her out.' He looked back at his daughter. 'Your visitor is in the living room. Go on through, my dear.'

Meg's eyes went to her mother's face. To her eyes, the woman looked...angry. Like she'd been insulted or something. Silently, Meg squeezed past her parents and headed into the living room.

The stranger stood at the fireplace, leaning patiently against the mantelpiece. No doubt he heard the words of Meg's mother, yet he didn't seem bothered by her concern. When he saw Meg, he smiled.

He had a natural warmth to him, Meg noted. A nice, friendly face and a calm, patient demeanour. He was wearing a t-shirt in a shade of dark orange under a black jacket, with a pair of ordinary black jeans. Meg had been around teachers from posh schools her entire life and yet she'd never seen one who dressed like this. He reminded her of someone who could be found at a rock concert somewhere, dancing in the crowd.

'Good afternoon, Miss Clute,' he said, in a voice like warm honey. 'A pleasure to meet you.'

Meg managed a polite smile. Her parents leaned in the doorway behind her, watching vigilantly.

'Let's take a seat,' the stranger continued, still smiling gently at the girl. 'We have a lot to cover.'

Meg perched on the edge of her mother's hideous pink sofa. The stranger took his time to settle in the chair across from her, then leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. 'First things first: my names is Professor Logan Fawley. Did your father tell you why I'm here today?'

'You're going to talk to me about a school,' she replied, cautiously. Her father was a Professor. He was a Professor because he taught at a university. This man couldn't be here to talk to her about going to a university. She got good marks in school, but not _that_ high!

He nodded. 'I am indeed. A very special school. It's a school of...well, magic.' He laughed over the last word, like even he was surprised he was saying it.

'Magic,' Meg repeated. She resisted the urge to look back at her parents. 'As in...card tricks?'

'No,' he almost cut her off. 'As in actual magic. Would you like some proof?'

She stared at him. He seemed to take that as a yes, because he reached into his jacket and pulled out what looked like the handle of a bread knife. He laid it on the coffee table between them and slid out what appeared to be a brown stick from his sleeve. He pointed this stick at the object and flicked his wrist. A sharp blue light erupted from the tip with a crack; the handle shook, then sprouted legs.

Meg flinched away as the fat, hairy tarantula seemed to shake itself off, rising up off the table. It took a second to look around at its surroundings

Logan Fawley seemed to smirk at her reaction. He leaned over and carefully guided the tarantula onto his hand. 'So?'

'Whoa,' Meg breathed. Her eyes felt wide. 'I can learn to do _that?'_

'If you work hard,' he said, calmly seating the fat tarantula on his shoulder. The little creature settled there like it was used to it.

Meg suddenly didn't care about her friends at her old school. She whirled on to her parents. 'Can I go? _Can I go?'_

Her mother stepped into the room, hugging herself. 'It's a boarding school, Meg. I can't...I don't _approve—_ '

'Beth—' her father began.

'Studies say children _suffer_ from being away from their families for so long—'

'Beth—'

'And – it certainly is a clever trick, Mr Fawley, but Meg's never done anything like that before. How—How do we even know she'll be able to…?'

Fawley looked at Meg. 'Surely, Miss Clute, this feels familiar? Things have happened that you can't really explain – cups tipping over without anything touching it, people acting strangely, maybe even a misbehaving candle?'

Meg was quiet. The image of a pair of trousers bursting into flame, only for the fire to vanish a second later. That time Jules lost the ability to speak, stumbling over his tongue like it had swollen in his mouth. A sentence or two and it had gone again, leaving everyone to just assume a momentary lapse in brainpower. Weird things happen sometimes. That's what her mother always said.

'Silas,' her mother said, appealing to her husband. Meg's father sighed, rubbing his eyes.

'I don't know what to say, Beth. This is...confusing.'

Meg saw Fawley watching her parents. He seemed to be examining them, like a teacher at a test. Finally, he breathed a sigh and reached into his jacket again. 'I'm afraid you have little choice. You do _have_ a choice,' he clarified when Meg's mother gave him a horrified look. 'This isn't a prison sentence. But your daughter's magic won't just go away. The older she gets, the harder it will be to control. It's small tricks at the moment, but if left unchecked, the results could be catastrophic.'

He seemed to find whatever he was searching for and pulled it from his jacket, dropping it on the table between them.

It was a letter, addressed to _Miss Margaret Clute, Third Bedroom, The Rose Garden, Hals Way, Oxfordshire._ It was for _her._

Meg hesitated for half a second, then picked it up and flipped it over. It was sealed with wax. She'd never seen a letter like this before. She tore it in the corner, the thick paper fighting against her fingers.

The paper inside was heavy. In the right-hand corner was a shield. The school crest it must be. Red, Yellow, Blue and Green. Meg wondered if the addition of a secondary colour amongst the set of primaries annoyed anyone else.

' _Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus,'_ she read aloud.

For the first time, a smile flickered over her father's face. 'Never tickle a sleeping dragon?'

Meg gasped. 'There are _dragons?'_

Fawley laughed. 'Not in the castle, but yes.'

'It's in a _castle?'_ Meg whirled onto her parents again. 'Daddy, did you hear that? It's in a _castle!'_

Her father said nothing. His lips pressed together, bleaching white.

Meg carried on reading the letter. 'Dear Miss Clute, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.' She raised her head. 'Does that mean I'd be a witch?'

'You are a witch. An untrained one.'

Meg turned eagerly to the next page. 'Daddy, I need a wand! And...a cauldron...and I can bring a pet!' She turned to her father again. 'Daddy, you think I should go, don't you?'

'Meg—' he mother began. Her father stepped forward and reached over the back of the sofa to look at the list himself. Meg watched his eyes flick over each item, then to Fawley. The man (wizard?) was observing the three of them intently.

'Is there a shop for this?' her father asked him. His voice sounded weird. Like he'd been hit on the head or something. 'Some kind of specialist magical shop?'

Fawley considered him for a second. Then his eyes flickered to Meg's mother. 'I can show you, if you've made your decision.'

'Now?' Meg asked him eagerly.

The man regarded her for a long pause. 'Yes. Now.'

Meg looked at her father. Her father looked at her mother. Her mother looked at the floor.

Her father made the decision for her. 'If you would be so kind, Professor Fawley, I'd like to know more about my daughter's new school.'


	2. Diagon Alley

2\. Diagon Alley

Meg found herself staring at a brick wall.

Fawley pulled out his wand, stepping up to the wall. 'You'll want to pay attention to this, Miss Clute,' he threw back at her.

She gave him her full attention as he tapped the tip against the bricks. As she watched, the wall peeled away onto the street behind.

Her mouth fell open. The bustling street was filled with people in long, billowing robes. Children clung to their parents, dragging their attention to the bright, old-fashioned shops lining the streets. Fast, glittering objects flew about in the air, too fast for her to get a good look at them. Old men in pointed hats gossiped outside of a teashop.

Her father's hand tightened around her own.

Fawley tucked his wand into the waistband of his jeans. 'Alright then. First stop: Gringotts.' He pointed at the huge white building front and centre. 'This way.'

Meg was half-expecting everyone to recoil from them, clearly strangers in their magical world. Nobody even seemed to glance their way as they squeezed through the crowd, dodging a child on a flying broomstick. Meg's father had to drag her away from the owl shop - 'Later, Meg!' he told her impatiently, almost lifting her up to get her away from a particularly intelligent-looking screech owl.

The huge white bank stretched up in front of them. The doors, in burnished bronze, held a plaque: _Restored in 1998, by Order of Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic._

Meg's father didn't say a word as they passed the small, strange creature that stood guard. Upon entering the bank proper and seeing the hordes of similar creatures sitting where the tellers should be, he stopped, looked around, then got right back on track.

Meg stared too. At the creatures, and the old-fashioned tools they used to count money. She wondered what they were, and how long they'd lived amongst humans. When the one at the desk started talking to her dad and the Professor, she wondered if there were any other creatures able to speak English.

They left with a small collection of strange coins. Meg's father held a couple the large golden ones in the palm of his hand. 'Five pounds to the galleon? That's some exchange rate…'

'Wizards are a wealthy bunch,' Fawley agreed with a laugh. 'Next up – the wand. Only one good place to get that.'

Meg's skin prickled. She leaned around her father to look at the other man.

This was it. The moment she'd been waiting for since he'd made the arachnid still clinging to his collar.

Fawley caught her looking at her and smirked. 'This way, Miss Clute. We're looking for Ollivanders.'

Meg practically leapt off the front steps. She turned her head left and right, flinging her hair around, inspecting each sign like a detective.

She spotted it halfway down the way to the left. She gasped. 'There! I see it!'

Her father didn't have time to grab her before she bolted towards it, eyes fixated on the black sign.

She was so consumed in getting her wand she didn't notice the crowd of people gathered around one of the shops at the end of the alley. So, of course, she didn't have time to move when the crowd surged and a leg got in her path. The speed with which she hit it sent her flying, head over heels, to the cobbled floor.

'Ow!' the owner of the leg shrieked.

Meg didn't even pause. She clambered back to her feet and lunged for the shop door.

'Meg!' her father cried, grabbing her by the arm before she could disappear again. 'You need to calm down, young lady.' He turned to the older girl she'd tripped over, and her mother. 'So sorry – she's usually more observant.'

The girl's mother laughed softly, patting her daughter's shoulder while the girl glowered down at Meg and lifted the hem of her long violet robes. 'New first year? I remember that excitement.'

Meg's father just smiled at her, lips tight. Meg looked at him, then the woman, then dug her heels in and yanked harshly on her father's arm. 'Daddy, come _on!'_

 _'Meg,'_ he hissed down at her.

'Mum, _look,'_ the older girl took the opportunity to point out the reddening mark around her ankle. 'It's definitely going to bruise.'

Her mother's eyes lit up and she turned to gaze longingly across the crowd. 'They sell bruise removal paste here, dear. Ooh, I see an opening!'

Her daughter opened her mouth – probably to complain some more – but her words were stolen as the mother dragged her into a tiny gap in the fray.

Meg's father frowned at the woman. Meg wrestled with his arm in frustration. 'Daddy, _please!'_

'Alright, alright,' he muttered, finally giving in. He made a silent promise to himself to never let his wife know their tiny eleven-year-old practically fought him into a shop, and mostly won. 'Will you just take a _breath_?'

She ignored him, bursting through the doors and into the centre, looking around eagerly. The shelves filled the room, casting shadows over the room, like an old-fashioned bookshop. Meg inhaled deeply, wondering if it would smell like one. Deep, spicy wood met her nose like a warm hug. Not a bookshop, but just as nice.

The shadows moved and Meg jumped when she heard a rasping cough. An elderly man fell forwards, almost off the stool he was perched on. She watched him stagger to his feet, still coughing like he was going to keel over there and then.

'Father, sit back down!'

Meg jumped again as a younger – but not that young – man charged out from behind one of the tall shelves.

The old man ignored him, staggering to the desk and leaning onto it like his life depended on it. His cough faded, but his breath rattled in his chest. His filmy, watery eyes focussed on Meg with surprising acuity. He moved his mouth like he wanted to say something.

'I'll take care of it, Father,' his son said through a sigh, stepping in front of the desk and the older man. When he looked down at Meg, he had a welcoming smile in place. 'Hello there, young lady. Here for a wand, are you?'

Meg nodded eagerly. She felt her father's hand brush her shoulder, only to disappear a second later. She glanced back at him – he was stood with Professor Fawley, out of the way near the door.

'Ah. And how old are you?'

'Eleven.'

'Your very first wand, then?' his eyes considered her very closely. 'Very good. Very good indeed. Let us not waste any more time.'

With that, he pulled out a tape measure and tossed it into the air. It unravelled, suspended as if by a string, and stretched out beside her. 'Still small, but some growing left in you, I'll bet. Do you favour your right or your left?'

'My right,' she managed as she stared at the white tape measure extending itself down the length of her arm.

The man nodded sagely, pulling out a slender wand. Meg lit up, wondering if that was going to be given to her, but the man flicked it at the shelves, turning to collect the boxes that fired through the air towards him. He bundled them onto the desk, in front of his elderly father, who gave them a look of disgust. He tapped one gnarled hand against the nearest one, glaring at the words there.

Her son either didn't notice or refused to. He brandished the first one at Meg. 'Here we are, my dear – pick it up and give it a wave!'

Meg took the golden-hued wood with great fervour. She flicked it at a nearby ladder.

Nothing happened.

In the next second it was out of her hand. 'Never mind, never mind...Chestnut, 10 inches, core of unicorn hair.'

The next one fizzed slightly when she waved it, but it was quickly removed from her. ''Oak, 8 and a half inches, phoenix feather.'

The room lit up the second she touched it. Meg gasped, moving her hand to wave it at the desk, but it was out of her hand like the others. She frowned at the man, but he didn't seem to notice as he slid it back into the box and reached for another. 'Lets see...ah! Chestnut, 12 inches, dragon—'

His father burst into a coughing fit once more. Distracted, the man looked at his father, mouth open to scold him, the frowned.

The elderly man wasn't standing behind the desk any more. Whilst his son had offered her random wands, he'd staggered over to one of the shelves and attempted to climb the ladder. The ladder was now his support as he doubled over, hacking painfully.

'What are you doing?' his son demanded. Wordless, struggling to breathe, the old man jabbed a gnarled finger to the shelves. His son glanced that way and then shook his head. 'Father, I said I would handle it—'

His father's filmy eyes flashed and he started digging in his robes.

'Alright, alright,' the younger man exclaimed, palming his own wand. 'If you insist…' he flicked his wand at the box his father indicated and caught it in his other hand. With one last frustrated look at his father, he glanced at the box. He frowned. ' _This_ one, Father?'

His father coughed again.

He rolled his eyes and opened the box, offering Meg the dark wood within. 'Dogwood, 11 and a half inches, dragon heartstring core.'

It was an elegant style, Meg noted, reaching for it. Long and spindly, with a handle decorated with little bobbles of wood. It slid nicely into the palm of her hand.

The second she got a good grip, it whistled, sharp and piercing as a boiling kettle. She flinched; the movement made a burst of hot pink sparks erupt from the tip. She could feel the power of the wand, like it was demanding for her to cast a spell, right then and there, so she could use that power for both their benefit.

Wide-eyed, she flicked the tip at the desk. The other boxes scattered as if hit by a gust of wind, shooting into the air and showering back down, narrowly missing the two men in front of her. She looked at them sheepishly, expecting a scolding, but instead the younger man burst into a peal of laughter. 'Oh, very good!'

The older man coughed pointedly.

'Yes, Father, you were right,' the younger man admitted. The smile on his face told her he was quite happy being wrong. 'That's quite an interesting wand you have there,' he told her, eyes glittering. 'Dogwood likes witches and wizards that can keep them entertained. They like to make a lot of noise and are known to be quite...mischievous.'

Meg looked down at the wand in her hand. It had a little twirl in the stem. It seemed to shake in her hand, coaxing her to wave it again. She looked at the man again. 'Mischievous?'

'Indeed. I imagine it finds a kinship with you.'

She blinked. Mischievous was not a word she would ascribe to herself. But she didn't argue. This wand was now her most favourite thing ever.

'Yes, my dear. That wand will serve you well.' His eyes glittered.

Meg clutched her prize to her as her father paid. He forced her to put it back in the box, but couldn't convince her to part with it any further than that. She hugged it against her chest, shielding it as if terrified someone was going to snatch it from her.

The crowd was still gathered outside. Now she wasn't so desperate to get places, she took the time to look at what exactly they were thronged around.

 _Weasley's Wizard Wheezes,_ the sign proclaimed. The windows were filled with bright oranges colours and intriguing doohickeys, but that didn't seem to be the cause of the horde.

Two tall ginger men were stood in front of the door. Children hung off them, yelling excitedly, half-heartedly held back by their just as excited parents. The taller of the two men, the one apparently conducting the most attention, had bright red ears. The other one only had one.

'An odd pair,' Meg's father muttered, coming to stand beside her.

'George and Ron Weasley,' Professor Fawley offered, joining them. 'War heroes. I forgot – Ron retired from the Auror office a few weeks ago.'

Meg's father frowned at him. ' _War_ heroes?'

Fawley simply nodded.

Her father looked at the men again. 'How did that one lose his ear?'

Fawley shrugged. 'Magic.'

'Is magic dangerous?'

'Extremely,' he said without even a hint of hesitation. 'Which is why your daughter needs to learn how to properly control it.'

Meg's father stared at him.

Fawley seemed thoroughly unperturbed. 'What else is on your list, Miss Clute?'

Meg scrambled for the parchment. 'Umm...books, the uniform...ooh, ooh, a pet!'

'That's optional.' Her father frowned at her.

But she'd already turned and spotted the pet shop. Her face lit up. 'Wow, look at the kitten!'

'Meg!'

She barely heard him as she wound her way towards the animals hanging from cages. Her eyes were focussed on a small brown tabby with huge orange eyes. When she pushed her fingers through the bars, the little creature rubbed her cheek against them and started purring loudly.

'Is there any actual benefit to giving children responsibility for small creatures?' her father asked Professor Fawley.

The Professor smirked. 'It helps with feelings of homesickness. The students use owls to send letters back to their parents. Depends on the student, of course.'

Her father sighed. 'Would it be too much to ask if letters could just be sent through the post?'

'Of course they can. It's a tradition more than anything else. The letter end up where they're sent to, regardless of the form of courier.'

Meg ignored them both. Feeling eyes on her, she turned her face and met the gaze of a thin black cat. She gasped and lurched for it.

The cat gave her an impressive glower as she approached. When her fingers touched the metal of the cage, the inky creature pulled back its lips and hissed. When she didn't move, it growled.

'This one,' she called to her father. 'This one is my cat.'

Her father, mid-discussion with Fawley, looked from her to the cat. 'It's growling at you, Meg.'

'It's using reverse psychology.'

'Meg,' he began. Then paused and sighed at the ground. 'Fine. Fine. Get the bad-tempered hell-cat.'

She pretended she didn't hear the sarcasm in his voice.

Her father then had to pry her away from the desk when she saw the fire-breathing toad inside and attacked the disinterested guy at the counter with a flood of questions.

Clutching the cage – almost as big as her – she resolved to be as well-behaved as possible for the rest of the day as Professor Fawley guided them from shop to shop, gathering supplies. Her father looked more and more exhausted with each new shop, each new weird tradition, each new nugget of information helpfully provided by the Professor. Meg found it strange – her father usually _loved_ nuggets.

And then they were in the bookshop. Fawley told them there wasn't a shortage of bookshops in Dragon Alley, but this one, Flourish and Blotts, was the most reliable. It was also very busy, so manoeuvring through it with a huge cage was proving quite difficult.

Her father paused at a bookshelf and picked up a book that must have caught his eye. Meg watched him inspect the cover intently, then flip it open.

His eyes flickered over the words. A couple of paragraphs down the page, his shoulder relaxed and he pulled the book closer, as if embracing a lifeline.

Meg knew that look – he understood. He'd grasped the concept and now dove into it, ready to learn more.

'Daddy?' she began.

He drew his eyes away from the book long enough to look down at her. His eyes were no longer cloudy and dazed. His mind was sharp and his eyes piercing. 'Start grabbing books.'

Meg lit up.

 _He gets it._


End file.
